Race Report: Moosalamoo Ultra 36-Miler - August 3, 2013

Last year, I did the portion of the Moosalamoo Ultra that race creator and director John Izzo cheerfully refers to as the "heavy half," a 14-mile trail race that starts with a deceptively easy run up a gravel road then slaps runners in the face with the ascent of Moosalamoo Mountain, beats them over the head with a mud slog out-and-back along a cross-country ski trail (read: not maintained for summer use) and then lets them off the hook with a few easy miles back down the dirt road, finishing at the start point just a few hours after the start.

I missed the (big, red) turnaround sign on the out-and back portion last year and did a couple extra miles, but still came in third in my age group.  It was this race that gave me the confidence to train for my first marathon and to vow to come back stronger next year.

This year, the second running of the race, I opted for the full 36-mile ultra.

Technically, an ultramarathon is any race longer than the standard marathon distance of 26.2 miles.  Typical race distances are 50K (31.1 miles), 50 miles, 100K (62.2 miles) and 100 miles.  Yes, 100 miles of running all at once in a single push.  But that's another series of posts.

This one is about my first Ultra, which fell between the standard 50K and 50 mile ultra distances.  I'm lucky enough to live about an hour drive from the race course, and I took full advantage of my "home field" status by doing three training runs on the course itself.  This is actually a fairly rare privilege in the world of ultrarunning, as race courses normally involve quite a bit of private property.  But this one is run entirely within the confines of Moosalamoo National Recreation Area, and therefore open to the public.  It has become one of my favorite places to run in Vermont.

The race started at Blueberry Hill Inn and XC Ski Center in beautifully remote Goshen, Vermont.  John gave his amusing safety and course instruction speech, the crowd of racers stood quiet for the Canadian and American national anthems, and then the race was on.

True to form, I'd gotten to the race start later than planned and was still buckling on my backpack when the starting horn sounded.  But I got myself adjusted quickly and had the confidence-boosting experience of passing a few dozen runners during the first dirt road portion of the race.  My inner monologue wavered between feeling confident to wondering if I was going out too hard and would regret all this speed later.  But I opted to stick with it for now, and felt like I was in a good position by the time we finally hit singletrack at the trailhead for Moosalamoo Mountain.

The field of runners quickly readjusted itself once we hit steady incline, and I was happy to note that I passed more runners than I was passed by.  I marshalled my strength, knowing from my practice runs that I could make up a lot of time on the descent down the other side of the mountain, and also having a good idea of just how much mud was coming up after the second aid station.  I tried not to think about that too much.

It wasn't until I got up and over Moosalamoo Mountain that I really started to feel good. On the back side of the mountain is a fantastic descent that drops from 2597' to 1041' over about 2.5 miles, and running downhill is my favorite part of trail running. I flew past everyone who had passed me earlier, and a few people I'd been trying to catch for the last several miles.  I felt like Killian Jornet, though the comparison is kind of like a kitten feeling like a lion.  And yet by the time I got to the second aid station, just before the long out-and-back, I found myself settling firmly in as the second-place female.  I held that in my mind and slogged through the ankle-deep, shoe-sucking bog mud, repeated it to myself as I powered up inclines and gleefully opened up my stride for the few descents that were left.  I could see nobody ahead of me, and would look behind whenever the trail opened up for a long view of where I'd just been... nobody.  I was holding second place all on my own, and trying like hell to catch up to the leading woman.  I didn't want to be the "first loser."

Somewhere along the ski trail from Sucker Brook to Forest Road 32, I lost my momentum.  I was slogging through standing water and stinking mud, still grateful for my trail gaiters, but just "over" the whole mud thing.  Maybe I'd done too many practice runs on the trail because I knew how much mud was still ahead, and I was not looking forward to it.  I felt my energy waning with each step, until it was nothing more than stubbornness keeping me going.  I got to the next aid station where my friend and training partner Scott was volunteering.  He asked how it was going and how I felt, but I couldn't summon much more than grunting and "eh, alright."  I was munching a couple potato chips when I asked about the lady in front of me.  She was hopelessly ahead by about 20 minutes at that point, and I knew there was no way I could catch her, unless something tragic happened to her - which I didn't actually want.  But then Scott shed a little light on my mental cave.  "She's only 26, though."
"You mean she's not in my age group?"
"Nope."

I can't begin to explain how much that reinvigorated me.  I actually summoned the energy for a little jump and a "Woot!" of excitement.  I might not be able to manage first place female, but I could still win my age group.  I slurped down a couple tiny cups of Coca-Cola and resumed my slog toward the finish.

Things were going pretty well after that until some point on Chandler Ridge.  The Chandler Ridge and Leicester Hollow trails are actually my two favorite parts of the entire Recreation Area, but for once, Chandler failed to revive my flagging spirits.  Even though there was no sign of anyone getting close to me, my energy was tanking again.  I didn't have anything "real" to eat, just some more Clif Energy gels and the weak Gatorade I'd mixed at home, which was quickly gone and left me wishing I'd made it full-strength even though I don't normally like the taste.  These were not normal conditions, though.  My feet had been soaked for a few hours out on the ski trails, and now the dry and rocky Chandler Ridge Trail was sheer agony.  All I could think of was the miles I still had left to run and the fact that any time my left foot so much as brushed a rock or root, stabbing agony shot up my leg.  I was pretty confident that the blisters I normally get on my pinky toes during long-distance runs had become something catastrophic.  All my mental tricks that I'd developed as I had increased my distances during training failed me.  I was more than 2/3 done, but that still meant I had 10 miles left to go. I was close to another downhill section... but my toes were already screaming in agony and I wasn't looking forward to it.  The sooner I finished, the sooner I could rest... but I wanted to rest now.  There may even have been whimpering involved.

I hit the lowest point of my infantile running career at that point.  I started stubbing my toes with nearly every step, stumbling with weariness and a childish feeling that I just plain didn't want to do it anymore.  I distinctly felt a blister break on my toe, and what had been agony before became a new level of pain that nobody has made a word for yet.  I wanted someone to show up on an ATV or a horse or with a damned wheelbarrow and drive me out of there.  All I wanted in the world was to not run or walk or hike anymore.  This whole ultra running thing was great for other people, but not for me.  My one solace was that I didn't feel like throwing up or passing out.  Yet.

Then a miracle happened.  I stumbled hard and had to do some very quick footwork to keep from doing a face plant.  And for whatever reason, my feet just kept moving fast.  One, two, one two... I was running again, with absolutely no conscious decision to do so.  In fact, my only conscious thoughts were the exact opposite. It was very nearly an out-of-body experience, and there was no thought involved beyond the idea to just go with it, since it appeared that my toes had gone numb to the pain anyway.  After all, it was a race, and races are not won by taking naps on the side of the trail.  At least not this one.

One of my favorite sections of Leicester Hollow Trail

I was able to alternate running and walking then for a few more miles, glancing back now and then and honestly still a little smug that there was no sign of my competition.  It lured me into thinking maybe I didn't have to push so hard, and I'd be able to finish this thing in good standing without laying it all out on the table.

Sometimes I display my foolishness right out in the open for all to see.

I held the proud position of first loser for approximately 25 miles of that race.  I was making my way up Leicester Hollow and just about to come to the last gauntlet of shoulder-high stinging nettles when, out of absolutely nowhere, this girl comes jogging up beside me, says, "Hey, how's it going?" and just keeps right on trucking.  I was so stunned it actually slowed me to a walk.  After processing it for a bit, it sank in that I'd just been passed.  Now I wasn't even first loser. I was second loser.  Damn.

The stinging nettles earlier in the year, before they grew to Carboniferous Era size

Two miles later, it happened again.  I was checking in at the last aid station when a lady came up from the trail I'd just happily stepped off and, as I munched on the most amazingly delicious slice of watermelon in the world, she hastily checked in and then kept right on running.  I chucked my watermelon rind and followed after her.  Hell no, I am not going to be THIRD loser!!

About a mile after that, I couldn't have cared less which loser I was.  Slogging through the last bog, I was confirming to myself just how much I was "over" this whole thing, when I realized how hilarious it was.  Most people seem to expect the last bit of a race to be a comfortable glide to the finish line with easy, soft terrain that congratulates the runner for making it that far.

But not the wonderfully sadistic John Izzo.  After 34 miles of mountain, ski trail, mud deeper than my gaiters, standing water, dry rocky hills, unavoidable stinging nettles, razor grass and deerflies, Mr. Izzo chose to have the last bit of trail cross a true bog, complete with cattails.  That's no exaggeration - I was actually pushing cattails aside as I followed the trail.  And that, my friends, is worth a good belly laugh.  It even revived my spirits enough to jog the last little stretch down dirt road and quip, "Did you like that sprint?" as I finally dragged my exhausted self over the finish line.

As it turns out, neither of the ladies who passed me was in my age group, so I still took the trophy over the only other woman aged 30-39 running in the race that day.  Hey, it's still a win.  I came out 4th woman, 11th place overall, and determined to do it better next year.  I realized later that my feet actually weren't as injured as they'd seemed back on the ridge, proving the point that ultra running is more about mental game than it is about muscles.

Why would I do it again?  Because now that I know I can do it, I know I can do it better.  I learned some valuable lessons about conserving energy, gaps in my training and nutrition during a race.  It seems wasteful to do all that learning and never apply it, doesn't it?